


Black Box

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Don't copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-15
Updated: 2004-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Harry in a box.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Kudos: 9
Collections: Anonymous





	Black Box

My arms are pulled back awkwardly around the chair, bound tightly. My legs are spread and wrapped in rope, holding them firmly to the chair legs. The chair itself is held down by magic, as I cannot get it to budge an inch. My mouth tastes of rubber and leather, my jaw aching from the gag. My tie is tight around my neck and strapped to the rope that is circled around my chest and the chair. I can move my head and hips, though it's barely worth it. The rough wood of the chair is digging into my back and I can feel splinters sliding into my skin with any movement I make. If I tilt my head back it becomes harder for me to breathe, so I hold it as still as possible. My legs and arms are going numb and if I try to lift my hips my muscles burn. It wouldn't be half bad, but I am enshrouded by darkness, the smell of cardboard permeating my nose. 

I've lost track of time. I may have been here an hour, maybe only half that. It's impossible to tell. I want to know how this is going to help me in the war. I don't see anyone strapping me nude to a chair. Okay, on second thought that's quite possible. Damn it. _Patience, Potter_ echoes through my mind. I must allow myself to relax, to not let the bindings get to me. Just as I feel myself relaxing the soft scratch of skin across cardboard reaches my ears and travels down my spine. 

He's here. He's finally here. And he's going to release me from these bindings and this box and I can get back up to my dormitory and relax. The fingers running along the cardboard have stopped. He could have at least used brown cardboard, I might have a spot of light to tell how long I've been here; but no, he had to use the black. Just like the uptight, over buttoned, high collared clothes he always wears. The ones that allow small glimpses of skin if he turns just right, or if his hand reaches out for something just out of grasping distance. Thinking about his clothing, or rather, what he keeps hidden under it, is arousing me. I should not be aroused by him. Not in the slightest. His greasy hair, long nose... and, oh gods, that voice. 

He's speaking to me, his voice clear while everything else in the room is muffled. I bite back a moan as his words drip across my chest like hot wax. The bitter tone laves across my nipples and they pucker into tight nubs. I arch forward as much as I can, tears forming in my eyes as I pull against the restraints, my muscles burning. 

He continues with his speech and, while everything is spoken clearly, not a word registers in my ears. Instead, they sweep teasingly across my chest, neck, back, cock. And, dear Merlin, I feel myself constricting and tensing. I wonder what sort of charm he's used to cause these reactions. Words should not elicit such sounds from me. I'm whimpering around the gag, my jaw feels as though it's going to split at any moment. 

Slowing down, his words graze my skin, every so often a scathing remark nips fiercely at my skin. I'm crying, writhing, and making as many sounds as I can. My attempts at forming words are useless, and the ropes rub and cut and burn me. I arch my neck back and come and my breathing is nearly cut off completely. As I finish I feel the bindings fall free. I slowly stand and I cannot feel my legs. It's as though I've been cursed a thousand times with jelly legs, yet somehow I am able to stand. 

My clothes find their way back on and I cannot move my arms for the life of me. They hang loosely at my sides, rubbed raw from the bindings. My tie loosens and fixes itself properly around the collar of my shirt. The box disappears and the light is blinding. I squint my eyes as Snape places my glasses back on my face. I open my eyes slightly to look Snape in his, my world back in focus. 

"Good job, Potter," he says and leaves the room, though his expression conveys a lack of enthusiasm about my ability to withstand the torture I have just experienced. I stand there blinking for a moment when the gag falls from my mouth and I close it, wincing at the pain. My eyes sweep across the room and focus on the clock. I arrived at eight. It is now eleven and if I'm not careful making my way back to Gryffindor Tower, I will surely get in trouble. I turn and leave pondering the importance of these sessions and what Snape does while I am stuck in the box.


End file.
